A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for a racing mind

The story, in full

There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Just the breath. The words can start to blur now.

Let them. Sleep. Softer.

Midday is an underrated time for this.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.